Conversations
by TarnishedArmour
Summary: A disjointed set of conversations that would’ve been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn’t. Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear. Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin’.
1. Chapter 1

**Conversations #1**

**Disclaimer:** Jericho is not mine, never was, and never shall be; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, writing for fun. Don't sue.

**Warning**: No ship (sorry). No sex, but for more mature audiences, given the nature of the conversation. This is the conversation Johnston & Jake never managed to have about war. The "chore" Johnston & Jake are performing is not an easy one, is not a common one, is technically physically possible, but is something they would need to do with their supplies being so limited. This is not something I know much about, technically, and the people I know who could tell me, well, I didn't ask. I'm not getting into the technicals here (esp. numbers), so those who do know how to do this, let me off easy on this one. Yes, the how-to info is out there, but there are some things that I just won't research & put in for detail for a fic. First _Jericho_ ff, so please be kind.

**Post episode #14** (Season 1 of course), want to say it's "Heart of Winter". Either way, the episode before "Semper Fidelis".

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Jake turned and looked at his father. Yes, the old man was still there, carefully measuring the grains of gunpowder for the slightly recycled pistol rounds. Jake was in charge of pouring the hot metal into the molds borrowed from Old Man Adams and popping out the cooled cartridges. If the one making the casings screwed up, it wasn't too horrible. If the one measuring the powder screwed up, the results could be much worse than a simple misfire. Even though Jake had learned to load his own rounds from--who else?--his grandfather, Johnston insisted on taking the heaviest responsibility himself.

In a way, Jake was relieved. It gave him some room to think about what he really wanted to say to his father. That night, less than a week ago, when he'd confessed what he'd done, where he'd been…it was the first time in a long time that he thought his dad really did understand him. There were too many years and more than too many shouting matches between the two stubborn Greens and the time they had been buddies, hunting on weekends and playing football in the yard. And then, five years ago, Jake had hurt everyone he'd ever cared about by simply disappearing. These crazy times had almost reached the point that Jake thought his dad might be able to start forgiving him for the wreck he'd left behind--and then, in the freezing cold, knowing he wasn't going to survive to see help or anything else again, he'd confessed his worst.

Big brown eyes stared at him, always. He could see those big, sweet eyes watching him, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. The weight was crushing. The worst part--the girl had been laughing, chasing her sister across the street. She hadn't known the transport group was coming in for the supplies that had been stolen in an ambush. She probably hadn't known about the ambush. He had barely known that the company--not J&R--had ordered the employees to get those things back before he was involved in the firefight. Jake, with Freddie at his side, had accepted that. Now all he had to do was live with those eyes haunting him. His vision was better than twenty-twenty, and she hadn't been that far away.

Silence only made the feeling of her watching worse.

"I drove transport, Dad. Drove a deuce-and-a-half, sometimes flew. Almost two years in Afghanistan and Iraq together--less in Iraq." Jake's words were disjointed, but his hand was steady as he poured the molten metal into the molds. This was the last set for the night. Knowing that he was going to say something, Jake had turned back to his half of their chore, paying more care to what his hands did than his words. He didn't see Johnston's hands go still, the steady blue eyes flash with pain and close against the things Jake needed so desperately to say.

Johnston's mind flashed back to another conversation, so similar, that he'd had with his own father. Even a 59-year-old father of two and a combat veteran who had, by some miracle, managed to survive 40 years of marriage to one hellcat of a woman sometimes wished he had his own father to turn to. This was one of those times. Jake had paused, needing a response--something--and Johnston did the only thing he could. He asked the right question at the right time for a conversation that was only going to end up hurting more than anything he could remember. Shame the good whiskey was gone.

"How long?" Johnston asked, his voice low and steady, but rough from the prolonged silence of their favourite "recycling" chore. Or was it their least favourite? It was late enough that it didn't particularly matter anymore.

"Fourteen months in Afghanistan, six in Iraq." Jake gave a humourless chuckle. "If I didn't have the passport stamps, I wouldn't bet able to tell you which was first. Everything just ran together after a while--dust and dirt and heat…" His voice trailed off. Those eyes had come back again, as always when he laughed. Did her ghost hate him? He shook off the thought and returned to his confession. "It was a routine run in a place that had calmed down some. I…can't really say where. Hell, I don't even know if there are any troops left in Iraq, much less anywhere else--but I just…" The justification sounded just plain stupid to him, so he stopped speaking.

Johnston understood. "But it's hard to break operational code, even when you know that part's over." He glanced over at Jake, who had put the last mold to the side and was checking the cooling molds. "Yeah. That doesn't really change, even when the war's been over for almost thirty years and you know damn well it doesn't matter anymore to anyone who's listening."

"It was hammered into us. There were pictures, stories…we just didn't talk about where we were going, where we'd been, or what we were hauling." It was a relief not to have to explain that, too. Jake just confirmed what his dad understood. He didn't know if this was going to be easier or harder than the initial confession--and he didn't want to guess.

"Place probably wasn't in the news, ever. Hell, call it Sandtown. Good a name as any." Johnston scraped the powder into the wax paper cone and twisted the ends tight. Another charge. He tipped the box of powder again and watched the scale.

"Right," that fleeting urge to smile--and those eyes. Jake closed his eyes, prayed that this would exorcise his ghosts, and began again. "We were running close to Sandtown when the convoy was hit. We were carrying some basic supplies, but things the tangos could use. They hit hard. I got lucky, but half the guys--they weren't. The tangos took the six lead trucks, I was near the end and managed to turn around. We got a few miles back and they didn't bother to chase us. Whatever was in those lead trucks was enough, I guess. I dunno…"

Jake went silent again, his hands restlessly popping the cooled brass from the first pour of the night--had it really been long enough for these to be cooled? Johnston read the silence again.

"Probably. Since they let you go, I'm sure it wasn't weapons. Food or medical supplies for their own men." It was enough of a prompt to get Jake talking again. He measured out another 40 grains. He didn't ask for the definition of 'tango'. He knew the phonetic alphabet and the way things were shortened in the military, even in support groups. Viet Cong would forever be 'Charlie', if only in his mind. 'Tango' was for the letter t, which would have been short for 'terrorist'--even if they weren't, technically, terrorists. So it went in war.

"Yeah. Freddie--he was the convoy boss after Hans died--called HQ to notify the commanders we wouldn't be on schedule, that there were tangos in the area. Word came back from the company, not the military, to get those supplies back ASAP. There was something in there that was just sensitive enough for us to be handed the job. I still don't know what it was--and I can't bring myself to care. Actual military support was at least three hours away, and it was getting dark. We turned around.

"Company shouldn't have said that--we were all upset, angry. They just gave us the green light, y'know? Just…go ahead. We had official blessings for going after the guys who…" Jake's throat closed. Words were too big to squeeze out. He went silent and the tears pooled in his eyes. He and Freddie had been the only ones to make it out--and now Freddie was gone, too. Lance, with his easy drawl and lazy manner somehow managed to outwork everybody in loading and unloading. Tomkins of the smart mouth and quick joke. Wilkes--hell, all of them. Gone. That one day…

This time, Johnston stayed silent. This time, the words had to come on their own.

"So we turned around. Only half of us left, most of us on two trucks. We loaded up. I drove." Jake's hands were sure and steady, even though his voice was shaky, too quiet, and his vision was blurred. "It wasn't hard to follow them. They weren't even looking back at us. Right back to the village.

"The people didn't know about it--or if they did, obviously didn't think anything would come of it. We parked behind a piece of wall that was still standing, probably knocked over in the Crusades or something. We just ran in--we only had a basic plan. We didn't know what the hell we were doing. It was--we weren't soldiers. Never meant to be. I mean, we weren't trained for this. But there we were…and there were...kids... running in the streets.

"The girl--she was chasing another girl, laughing, when I saw one of the men walking down the street. I took the shot and she…she ran across just when…I couldn't stop it. I saw her turn and look my way. She didn't even have time to stop laughing and look scared. And then…nothing was there but a red mist.

"The round traveled and hit the man in the shoulder. It was an aimed heart-shot…but the girl…" The tears were flowing down his face. He couldn't stop them, any more than he could stop his hands. If he had to stop, he'd go insane. If he wasn't already.

"From there, it's all a blur. Firing, ducking--but all I can see is her face. Her eyes…" He wanted to ask the question: Was he, Jake Green, crazy? Would he end up like Oliver, the town looney? Yeah, the man had been in Vietnam, magnitudes worse than what he'd experienced, but still.

Johnston was quiet for a long time. "I wish I could tell you they'll go away, son, but I can't do that."

"Like you couldn't forget--" The words were sharper than Jake had intended, more bitter.

"Because they never will." Johnston watched Jake as the reached the last cooled set of brasses and started fidgeting, running the empty brass shell halves through his fingers. "Hell, I still have nightmares about what I saw--what I did--and it's been over thirty years." Lost brown eyes, the same shape as his mother's, looked at him. It was worse than when he'd had to tell Jake that Old Sass had died. Jake had cried for weeks after that horse, and looked heartbroken for months. That same look was on his face now, but Jake wasn't five anymore. He was thirty-two, and that look was one that begged Johnston to make it all right again. And he couldn't anymore take this load from Jake than he could bring Old Sass back.

"War is Hell, you've heard that all your life from me and from Dad, and now you know it for yourself. The hard way. There's only two ways of dealing with taking a life, son, and neither one of them's very good. Either you become coldhearted and uncaring, or you open the wound and let it breathe, accept what you did and try to live with the knowledge. Both have a price. The first, well, you've seen 'em. Dead eyes, dead hearts, can't laugh or live anymore. Some of those love the rush--playing God. The second hurts like hell and drives you near to breaking, but you can get through it. You're tough enough. Some don't. They turn to drugs, alcohol, sex, even insanity, just to ease the pain of those first years." The question was unspoken, but Jake knew it was there.

"Not my things, Dad," he said, his heart aching and his hope of some way of dodging this gone.

"Yeah. I know. They never really were." Johnston sighed. "Wish I could give you the magic words for a quick-fix, son, but there isn't one. You have to look at yourself, what you did, and learn to accept it, to ask if it was worth it in the end and live with the answer, no matter what it was. Ask yourself if you could do it again, if you had to. Some can, some can't. It's what the West, our town, was built on, that can-can't difference." Johnston looked Jake in the eyes. His own nightmares coloured his pale blue a darker shade. "Women and children--they're the hardest, Jake."

The agony hadn't lessened, not really, but something much like curiosity showed through the hurt in Jake's eyes. It was time that Johnston tell some of his own experiences, the way his own father had told of his own nightmares. It wasn't like sharing other pains, where the grief lessened with each sharing, but it didn't grow, either. The edges were smoother over time and recountings, but they could still be sharp.

He didn't know what was worse: Knowing that he, Johnston Green, had been to war and done what he'd done, or knowing that one of his boys had gone and found out the same damned thing.

A long silence stretched between them and Jake handed the brass bases over to his father to be filled and carefully packed before they capped the rounds. Finally, Johnston spoke again.

"We were six miles out of VC territory…"

Jake listened to his father's voice telling about a woman who'd thrown her own child, explosives tangled in its blanket, into the hovering chopper his father and the other Rangers were using to get out of the hot zone. Eyes closed in pained empathy when his father recounted doing what had to be done. He'd shot the woman as the chopper rose. The baby had been thrown out only a second before the explosives blew. The concussion from the blast had bucked the chopper hard, but the shrapnel scars were still in Johnston's legs. She'd done her job--wounded six, killed two, and put a chopper down for repair. And Johnston had to live with that. The stories rolled on back and forth between the men, the painful episodes slowly fading and the ability to tell some of the crazy, funny things that no one else would really understand--unless they'd been there.

Jake found that he could still laugh. Night was fading and the rounds had been done for a long time when he realized that his own pain hadn't lessened, but if Johnston could live with this, maybe, just maybe, Jake could find a way to live with his own sins. It wasn't hope, and it certainly wasn't absolution, but maybe it could be a beginning.

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A/N: A "deuce-and-a-half" is a 2 ½ ton truck; other jargon is (hopefully) correctly used and should be easily picked up within context.


	2. Chapter 2

Conversations #2

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

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"Johnston, when are you going to do something about Jonah?"

Johnston Green closed his eyes and bit his tongue before he looked up from the papers in front of him to address the owner of that too-familiar voice. The tall, bald, pear-shaped man was Johnston's own personal albatross--but what he'd done to deserve this one, he had no idea.

"Good evening, Gray. How are you this evening? I'm fine, thank you for asking, but Gail has a terrible cold. Since it is close to five, I was just finishing up this report from Carl and Chief Reilly and getting ready to go home and make dinner for Gail. But if you need something right now, I'll stay here and discuss it with you." The sarcasm was, as usual, lost on the pompous ass. Johnston was not in the least surprised.

"Of course I don't want to keep you here with Gail sick, Mayor, but the man is a menace! He's been--"

"He's been a part of this town a lot longer than you have, and I am well aware of what he's done." Johnston looked at Gray again. The man was actually pouting! How in hell did he manage anything, much less a mine?

"Then why isn't he in jail?" Gray demanded, the former mine boss being a personal pet peeve of his.

"Well, Gray," Johnston said, leaning back and deliberately ignoring that good manners required him to offer Gray a chair, "here in Kansas we have this little legal requirement called 'evidence'. There is, at present, absolutely no evidence of any kind that indicates he has done anything illegal. In point of fact, he has repeatedly kept a few of the more undesirable elements on the edge of town from doing something incredibly stupid." And didn't Johnston regret it at times like these. Jonah had prevented more than one attempt on Gray's life, retaliation for the loss of the mine contract Jonah had held for so long. It was thanks to Mary Bailey that he knew that, but it had been done long before he'd learned about it.

"But everybody knows--"

"That's still not evidence, Gray," Johnston sighed. "Just like everybody knows you bought out the Perkins family with a contract that might not be considered perfectly legal, but since that copy burned up and left you with the deed, signed by all parties, well we just have to put up with you, too."

Gray Anderson's face had paled, then turned red with temper. He turned on his heel and stalked out.

Mayor Johnston Green leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. Hell with the report, he thought, he'd finish it in the morning. He had to make dinner. And now he had a headache.

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	3. Chapter 3

Conversations #3

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

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"It's not the end of the world, Johnston," Gail said, watching as her husband brooded on the couch. They'd just gotten in from watching Gray Anderson's swearing in as mayor.

"No, Gail," he grouched, "it's worse."

"He's not a bad man. You know that. I don't like the fact that he's in charge now, either, but this is still a democracy." Gail's voice reached that certain rhythm that told Johnston if he didn't speak fast, he'd lose all chance to do so for the next hour.

"For now." He held up a hand as Gail opened her mouth to object. His tone was strident as he continued, and his volume was a bit louder than necessary. "Hear me out, Gail. He's a lot of things, and a good businessman is one of them. But there's a difference in leading during crisis and establishing company policies. Hell, you've heard the man. He's a demagogue at best, a flat-out dictator in the making at worst." Gail was silent, as Johnston paused. He continued, more quietly. "He's got Jonah Prowse in jail for something I'm not even sure he did. Hell, the man's near my age. Granted, killing Gracie didn't take a lot of strength, but it took more than Jonah has right now. And he didn't bother to investigate. Do you know he actually accused Dale Turner of doing it, just because Dale might gain from Gracie's death?"

"Maybe it's not a bad thing that Jonah's in jail," Gail objected, remembering her son's involvement with the man. "And as for Dale, well, we all know better--"

"That's just it. WE know better, Gail. Gray just acts. He doesn't think. Consider the men who answered to Jonah for so long--who's leading them now? What will they do?" Johnston swiped a hand over his face. "Hell, Jonah's got ties to this town. Those men don't. Not even Mitch."

Gail walked over and sat beside Johnston on the couch. She picked up one of his hands and held it in hers, leaning her head onto his shoulder. They didn't speak for a long time.

"Do you know what really pisses me off about the whole thing?" he asked, pressing his lips to his wife's fiery hair. "That he's managing to ride the mob, but neither he nor anyone else sees that it can't last. Nobody's thinking anymore. I know things are bad, but they've been bad before. Worse." He sighed. "Maybe it's the population growth that's changed things so much. Hell, up until the seventies, there weren't more than 1,500 people in this town at any one time, including the people passing through. It's like the addition of another three thousand people just destroyed any brain cells we had as a population back then."

"When crisis happened and the whole town turned out to lend a hand, get the families back on their feet--like that tornado that came through here in '69." Gail could understand her husband's point. "This isn't the same thing, Johnston." She shook her head and felt Johnston move his cheek against her hair to get a more comfortable spot. After forty years of moments like this, she knew it would only take a second--and there. She closed her eyes and felt his jaw move to that one spot near the crown of her head. One of her hands had drifted up to his chest. The vibrations of his voice and heartbeat buzzed against her palm. Even when he'd gone off to war, to training, all those nights alone, she couldn't imagine living without this man, feeling this heartbeat under her hand as he held her.

"It's exactly the same, only it'll last longer and we're back to frontier technology again, or close enough to it that it doesn't matter." Johnston's anger was as much at himself as the people of Jericho who knew they could depend on him. What had they been thinking? He tightened his arm around Gail, knowing that after that outburst, she'd pull away and turn to look at him. The second her arm tensed, he loosened his grip.

"The people spoke, Johnston. Now, they're stuck with him." Gail moved away a bit and turned to look at Johnston. "If you try to change that after the fact, what are you?"

"I know, I know," he grumbled, pulling her close to him again. "Nobody says I have to like it."

"No, you don't." Gail rested her head on his shoulder again, knowing that soon enough she'd have to get up and start dinner, or what could be called dinner nowadays. They spent a long, comfortable interlude together, just being.

Johnston enjoyed the feel of Gail in his arms. He always had, especially in stolen minutes like this. They both had things to do, and it wouldn't be long before she started making restless little motions, the way she always did when there was work she felt had to be done. Times like this reminded him of why he'd been so grateful Gail had chosen to stay with him all those years ago.

"Gail," he said, his voice soft. She hummed in response. "Look at me, honey," he said. She lifted her head and sat back enough to see his face. This was an unusual request from her taciturn husband. She blinked in surprise as he brought one of his hands to her face, cradling her jaw in his palm. "I know I don't say it much, haven't said it more than a dozen times in the last thirty years, but I love you--you and the boys. Even though the town's taken up a lot of my time, I never stopped loving you, thinking of my family. You know that, don't you?"

Gail felt her eyes welling up, and smiled. The concern and sincerity and warmth in his eyes was an echo of the same open expression had caught her so long ago.

"Absolutely, Johnston," she whispered, her voice hoarse with the effort not to cry. Oh, how she loved this man! "You don't have to say it. Everything you do, everything you've done, says it for you." She lifted her hand up to his bearded cheek and then ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing some of the unruly locks back into place. It had been years since his hair had been so long--since the seventies, at least. He hadn't felt the need to say he loved her since that night five years ago, when Jake left. The time before that, she'd just given birth to Jake and he'd been holding a squalling newborn. Before that, well, she didn't need to relive every time right now. Those precious moments were branded into her heart.

"I love you, too, Johnston Jacob Green." The tears were still there, but she knew they wouldn't fall. They never did when he told her he loved her.

He nodded, closed his eyes. Just so she knew. He leaned forward and kissed the only woman he'd ever love. Best part--after all they'd been through, she still kissed him back.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Conversations #4**

**A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't. **

**Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.**

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"I am such an idiot!" The wail filled the room and left Emily blinking. The door slammed. Emily knew that voice.

"What?" Emily turned and looked at her friend.

"Am I an idiot? Never mind. I'm an idiot. Huge idiot." Heather buried her face in her hands. She had a blush that would shame a boiled lobster in a cartoon.

"What are you talking about, Heather?" Emily asked, wondering what had happened to her friend in the last few hours.

Heather looked up at the tall blonde and mumbled, "I kissed Jake in the middle of the street before he left for Rogue River almost a week ago."

"Good job," Emily said, smiling. Okay, so she was tempted by the past, but it was over. So very over.

"NOT good job. Bad. Very, very bad." Her face was hidden in her hands again.

"Okay…Not to put it too bluntly, but was it couldn't be the kiss. I mean, Jake's got some talents and that happens to be one of them." Emily was trying not to laugh. "Tell me, Heather. Spill. You're my maid of honor and all, so you're required to tell me everything that happened."

"No, the kiss was…great. Really great." Heather's little smile told Emily how nice it was. She was looking up again. This was progress. "Awkward because I pretty much jumped him. But good. No, bad was after the kiss."

"When Jake said…" Emily prompted as Heather whimpered and regressed to hiding again.

"When Jake didn't get in the damned truck and drive off." Heather pouted. She actually pouted.

"Ah. Classic Hollywood farewell kiss from the fair maiden--" Emily teased, watching Heather's reaction. The younger woman groaned and replied quickly.

"Who supplied the truck," Heather said, "which ended up not used because _you_ managed to get his car back, but that's fine. They got there and back safely, right? And Mayor Green is still alive, so that's all good." Heather was looking up again. Her voice wasn't accusatory and her shoulders had straightened some when recounting the good that had come of the trip. Then she slumped again.

"So he didn't drive off…" Emily had to drag this out of Heather, which was unusual.

"Because he was waiting for Eric. So there it was, he got a truck, and jumped and kissed, and then pure weirdness. I mean, what was there to say? I said something like, 'You aren't leaving.' He said he was waiting for Eric, and I said," Heather dropped her face into her hands again. "Whonebnasrrr."

"You said what?" Emily blinked.

"And I quote," Heather said more clearly, "'Oh. Ah...Watch out for giant irradiated ants out there.'"

"To which he said?" Emily was biting her lip so that she wouldn't bust out laughing. Only Heather.

"Again, quoting, 'Always do.'" Heather groaned. "Bad, huh?"

"Better than, 'Wait, you're Emma, right?'" Emily said dryly, remembering a different encounter that hadn't involved Jake. "But yeah, that was pretty lame."

"Wait, you're Emma?" Heather's jaw dropped and her eyes went wide. "From Jake?"

"Um, no. But it's still at least one order of magnitude better, right?" She didn't need to mention that had been a very inebriated Stanley after the junior prom. She didn't need to mention Stanley at all. Ever. Even to herself.

"Mistaken identity and oops vs. crazy woman kisses you & then makes bad sci-fi reference?" Heather shook her head. "That's a toss-up."

"Yeah." Emily started grinning as Heather giggled. "But at least you're not the only one."

"But we haven't spoken or seen each other for more than five seconds since!" Heather looked over at Emily. "Would that be bad?"

"Not necessarily," Emliy said, thinking. "That's probably just Jake being confused. It happens."

"Confusion happens? Are you writing bumper-stickers now?" Heather snorted.

"Well, think about it. You come home for a day, end up staying for several months, end up having to do all of these things and surprise everyone because you haven't screwed up big yet, you're not in jail, and you've got this girl throwing herself at you--"

"Literally."

"--literally, and oh, look, there's your ex-girlfriend driving your car which was a gift from your ex-boss who happens to be the town criminal leader." Emily finished her sentence and took a breath. "And the girl pouncing on you happens to be an elementary school teacher and your ex's best friend, and if that's not enough she's so sweet and open that you wouldn't know what to do with her normally--"

"He was a bad boy, wasn't he?" Heather asked, eyes growing wide as the list went on.

"Honey, you have no idea," Emily said, looking down. "Confusion would be ordinary. That he actually was able to come up with a reply to your, um…dorky comment was a good day."

"You think?" Heather's eyes whole body radiated hope. "I'm not totally screwed here?"

"Not yet, but don't let him hide from you." Emily shook her head. "When Jake decides he really doesn't want to think about something, he can bury his head so deep a flock of ostriches can't find him."

"So, I should jump him again?" Heather was confused. The nerds and goofballs she could handle. Jake was a different creature altogether, and she had no idea what she was doing panting after him. Well, she knew what she wanted from the panting, and he was gorgeous, but this was way out of her league.

"Tell you what, I'll find out and get back to you on that," Emily promised. "It's the least I can do."

"That's just…so…middle school," Heather sighed plaintively. She didn't want to go down the road of third parties and relayed messages.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Jake has a few hang-ups. The whole relationship conversation between adults thing isn't really on his list of talents or to-dos."

Heather sighed and the colour was finally leeching from her face. "All right," she finally said. "But please don't make it more awkward than it has to be." Heather was about to ask something else, but she stopped.

"What's the rest of it, Heath?" Emily nagged.

"You're really, truly, not upset about this? I mean, it's bad form to go chasing friends' exes." Heather was obviously worried about this. Gaining a male at the expense of a friend was always a bad trade.

"It was over a long time ago," Emily admitted. "We both knew it, but we just kept hanging on because it was familiar. Then Chris got killed and Jake left," Emily let out a long breath and shrugged. "Now, okay, there's an old attraction, but he's not the Jake I knew, and I have Roger…wherever Roger may be." Emily's depressed look came back. Heather knew it was Roger who had her emotions mired up, not Jake. They'd gone over their exes two years ago, with margaritas, and the story of Jake had come out.

"He'll be back, Em," she said, moving over to hug her friend. "I know he will. He'll do anything to get back to you."

"Yeah," Emily smiled at Heather. "I know. It's just…" She stopped when no words came to her.

Heather nodded. "Yeah. Just." Their conversation faded to silence and they drifted off to finish their work for the small meal they now called dinner.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Conversations #5**

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear. Or in some cases, speculate about times prior to the attacks.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Just speculatin'.

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_Several months before the attacks, in the Mayor's Office, Jericho, Kansas:_

Eric looked at his father, wondering when the man had gone grey. It was nothing new, really, but how had that dark hair become so white? When had it happened? Much as he'd like to blame Jake, he simply couldn't. He was the one who'd gotten that familiar scowl to appear on his father's face. Not the first time he, the "good son" had earned it, either.

"I know it's been a while, Dad, I was just wondering about him," Eric said, wishing he hadn't brought up his errant younger brother after all.

"We all wonder about him, Eric, but there's no reason to begin this conversation when we all know that Jake won't come back until he's damned good and ready. I don't know what he's looking for, or why he had to take off, but I do know…" Johnston's words trailed off as he considered his next words. What he had been about to say, Eric didn't necessarily need to hear.

"Know what?" The prompt was polite, but insistent.

"I do know that when he does come back, he'll just bring more problems with him. What I don't know is if I'll be able to get him out of them." The grim voice was filled with days and months of making deals and reparations to injured parties, one of whom had been Jonah Prowse. That had left a bad taste in his mouth for weeks.

"Maybe he's changed, Dad." Eric couldn't help but defend his little brother. He could tear Jake down, but no one, not even their parents, could just skate on by without some sort of defense. Johnston's look was enough. Eric held up his hands and changed his phrasing. "I know he was a brat," he ignored his father's disbelieving snort, "and I know he was difficult." Again that look. He was beginning to understand what Jake had gone through so many nights when one or both of their parents had cornered him downstairs. "But it's been almost five years. Maybe he's learned something."

"And if he hasn't? What then?" Johnston couldn't believe Jake had really turned to the good, no matter how much the ever-hopeful father in him wanted to. The boy had been weak enough to get in to bed with Jonah, before or after he'd started up with Emily, Johnston never knew, but the end result was the same. Mitchell Cafferty had just gotten out of prison six months before, and it was early spring. Time enough, people enough, for trouble. All they needed to make it big trouble was Jake. "I've never understood that boy," Johnston mused, forgetting for a minute that his quiet son was listening. "Didn't know what drove him to be such a wild one."

"What about Grandad?" Eric asked, thinking of his recently deceased grandfather. "We all loved him, but nobody in his right mind could call him a saint." Maybe it was just in the blood.

Johnston gave a half-smile and nodded. "True enough. I don't think Dad ever did some of the incredibly stupid things Jake did, though."

"There's any number of things people don't tell, Dad," Eric said, hoping his brother would show up at least for a little while. Just a drop-by visit before going on to wherever he needed to be. "Usually for good reasons." Eric just couldn't stop defending him. If Jake showed up, it'd be different, but someone had to stick up for him when he couldn't do it himself. That's what big brothers were for. And, it _was_ Jake. Who else would?

"Good point," Johnston murmured, considering some of the things he'd never mentioned to anyone, not even Gail. He could only hope Eric was right and he was wrong about the outcome of Jake's actions. It would be a first, but it would also be such a welcome mistake. "Well, none of this is going to change the fact that Jake's not here and we are, or that we have a pile of work to get through before tomorrow morning. Pass me that motion that Adams wants introduced at the next meeting."

Eric flipped through the papers and found the sheet his father needed. Deputy Mayor sounded impressive, but in truth, it was paperwork. He sorted it all, got it prepared for his father, and then passed it on.

Wherever Jake was, Eric hoped that he wasn't dealing with the paperwork. More, though, Eric hoped he was safe and well, out of trouble for a change. He'd never said it while Jake was there, but he loved his little brother, not matter how much it hurt.

Eric looked out the window on the darkening evening sky. He'd have to call April and tell her he would be late tonight.

*****

_Same day, behind closed doors, somewhere in or near Washington, D.C.:_

"Johnston Jacob Green, Jr., your after-action report shows some discrepancies," the man in the impressive uniform said. The other uniformed people were stern and cold, but nowhere near as impressive. Maybe it was the flash of stars on his shoulder-boards. Maybe it was the fact that Jake knew he was in it again.

Jake stood in front of the panel and hoped this wasn't as bad as he knew it would be.

"There shouldn't be, sir," he said. "If there are, I'd like to clear everything up."

"That's good," the man rumbled, "because you are looking at some serious trouble…"

Jake knew those words all too well. He closed his eyes. Once again, the voice of Johnston Green filled his ears, haunting him with those words, no matter another man was actually talking.

Would he _ever_ be good enough to hear pride in that voice?

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+


	6. Chapter 6

**Conversations #6**

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

"…Happy Birthday to you," Skylar sang, looking at the cake she had for her mother's birthday. Her voice was soft as she spoke.

"Well, Mom, it's not much, and it's certainly not what I'd expected, but here we are." The small box she put on the other side of the table was wrapped in expensive pearl-white paper. She smiled, and rolled her eyes. "I know. You don't have to say it. It's too expensive, since it's in the tiny box, but I promise you'll love it. You'll absolutely love it." She paused a second, looking at her box, then her mother. "I don't say it enough--the past year, I've hardly said it at all--but I love you."

Skylar looked at the picture of her mother, the box with the earrings she'd bought over a month ago, and felt the tears well up in her eyes.

"So much," she choked. "I miss you, Mom. Dad. You have to come home. It's your anniversary next week. November third." She picked up the stale snack cake on the fine china plate, the little candle with the cheerful little flame dancing in the cold night air. "Come home…" She blew out the candle and put the plate in front of her mother's picture.

Skylar curled up on the couch across from the picture and mourned the distance between herself and her mother, her parents. For the third week in a row, Skylar cried herself to sleep on the couch, wishing she'd been a better daughter, promising to cherish each memory she had of the parents who had loved her more than anything in the world.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+


	7. Chapter 7

**Conversations #7**

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

Jonah looked down at the late-August grass. Maybe he was a fool after all. He was out here, wasn't he?

"I know it's been a long time, longer than usual. It's bad out here now, worse than before--in the city. Maybe I'm just getting old." He carefully folded down to the sun-warmed ground and sat, his legs stretched in front of him. Leaning back, he looked at the bright blue sky. "Age is a bitch. I'm 63 this year, in two days, and here I am hanging on by my teeth to a group that I don't even want.

"Mitch is getting pushy--has been for the past year. Last few weeks, he's gotten worse. The boys are starting to listen to him. One of the idiots actually went with him to try a liquor store in Oklahoma. They didn't get the chance, though. Something spooked them off--not sure what." Jonah paused, almost as if expecting a reply, then continued. "I know. The boy's not the brightest, but Mitch…I'd had better hopes for him. He's got the brains to be a leader, but he's more interested in the short-range part of power. Boy wouldn't understand real power if it walked up and shot him.

"Not that I'm going to shoot him--I should, but I'm not. He's just too blind to see the difference between power and fear. People are afraid of him, but he doesn't have any control over himself or others. He'll cross the wrong person someday, and he'll pay for it." Jonah put his weight onto one arm and scrubbed his face with his other hand. "It's getting cool out here. This time of year, it's usually hotter. It's going to be a strange year.

"Don't know why I think that, but I do. Last year wasn't so bad, nowhere near as bad as it was a few years ago. But now? Maybe I'm just getting too old for all the crap. I should retire to Florida or something. Maybe not Florida. Kentucky--few acres in the hills, nobody and nothing to bother me...but you'd still be here." Jonah sighed. "Wish I could join you, honey. I miss you. Never treated you right while you were alive, now you're gone and all I can do is wish for a chance to go back and get it right, be a good father and husband."

The wind whipped by, but the woman said nothing. She hadn't for over five years. Somehow, Jonah knew he was a fool for coming into town just to talk with his late wife, but this was getting ridiculous. He was actually _speaking_ this time--and wishing he were with her. He'd never be with her. He wasn't good enough.

Footsteps. Jonah levered himself off the ground and turned to see none other than Johnston Green, mayor and pain-in-the-ass, complete with his jaw set and his hat on. Being in a mood that did not easily lend to attending lectures or vaguely veiled threats, Jonah brushed off his jeans and walked to his car.

_Next year, hon,_ he promised, _I'll bring roses._


	8. Chapter 8

**Conversations #8**

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

Johnston walked across the grass in the graveyard, not sure if he was more upset about seeing Jonah in town, again, or if it was the latest insanity dreamed up by the Gray Contingent. How that man managed to get out of bed in the morning without a committee consensus…

Ah, well. He wasn't out here to deal with Jonah or think about Gray. He was here to visit with his father. August 23, the old man's birthday.

As Johnston reached the stone marker, he couldn't help but chuckle about the last birthday his father had celebrated. Between the moonshine--Johnston would swear the still was in pieces and had been for years--and the stripper he'd ordered from Wichita, it had been a hell of a time. Thank God Gail hadn't caught wind of it.

"How'd you do it, Dad?" he asked, looking down at the stone. "How did you manage to do everything this town needs and still keep a sense of humour?"

_Not my fault you're a fuddy-duddy Johnny,_ his memory said. _Maybe if you'd unwind a bit, you'd see how I managed it. Besides, think of the times. So many more people here--why'd we allow that to happen, anyway?_

"Hell if I know," Johnston sighed, not thinking it odd that he was supplying both halves of the conversation. "Sometime in the past ten years, they just started showing up. They want shopping malls and arcades and movie theatres and coffeehouses--like we have enough people to make any of those worthwhile. And now Gray wants to have the mine property completely fenced off."

_What? The mine owns seven hundred acres of the best hunting in the area! Close that off and several families, even of miners, will go hungry at times. Hell, we all do what we can--_

"But we can't do everything for everybody and still have something left when things go wrong. I know, I know. When did this happen? When did we stop saying 'Work for it' and start saying 'Complain enough and the government will subsidize you'?"

_Well, it all started in 1935 or so, during the Depression when that jackass FDR was President…_

"It was a rhetorical question, Dad. No history lesson required."

_Then why'd you ask?_ The wind sighed for Johnston's father, a sound remarkably like the old man had made when he was making a point after years of patiently biting his tongue. _Never mind. You wouldn't be my son if you didn't ask pointless questions that I've already told you the answers to a dozen times. Besides, you're reaping the end of the Raw Deal, so you know why I hated that man so much._

"Yep." Johnston was quiet for a long minute. He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket. "Brought your favourite brand with me. Figured we could at least enjoy part of the day, if not all of it." He didn't feel compelled to explain that "we" was in this case himself alone, since he knew exactly how much of this conversation his memory was providing. "How'd you keep Gail from finding out about that stripper, Dad? That has been buggin' me ever since."

Johnston's memory failed him here, but the knowing smirk that would cross his father's face at times loomed large.

A soft chuckle filled the air around them. Johnston tipped the flask up to his lips and then poured a measure about where his father's lips would be. "Guess there are some things I'm just not meant to know," he said, watching the clouds bump in the sky.

A long silence fell between Johnston and his memories while the day faded away from his nerves. Peaceful as places could be, this was always one that Johnston loved and dreaded at the same time. He wasn't ready for this kind of peace, anymore than he'd been ready for his father to come here to rest. The sky was getting a bit darker, and soon enough it would be evening and then night. It was time.

"Happy Birthday, Dad," Johnston said just before he turned to go home. "I miss you."

_Not like you can't find me, boy,_ the wind whispered as Johnston walked away. _I'm not goin' anywhere anytime soon._

"Love you, too," Johnston whispered to the wind, the Scotch having an unusual effect on his vocal cords.

As he walked back to his car, Johnston finally saw the way around Gray's newest form of power-grab, and it would start with the past. He slid behind the wheel and started the car.

"Thanks, Dad," Johnston said as he put his car in gear. Once again, Eric Jacob Green had given his son an answer the boy already knew.

_You're welcome, Johnny. Love you, too. Wish I could help more, but…_

The grass bent in the wind and soon silence filled the sacred grounds.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+


	9. Chapter 9

Conversations #9

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

"They're not like us, Dale," Gracie said, trying to convince her young employee that Skylar Stevens was not worth the angst he was pouring into her. Or the time. Especially not the affection.

The end result of her infomercial on the perils of the financially-unchallenged was ultimately unsatisfactory. Dale went to that girl's party anyway. He had no idea what would happen.

But Gracie knew.

"Oh, Dale," she sighed, talking to the shelves, since no one was around to listen to her otherwise. "As soon as you get there, you'll run into the group she sees. A few minutes later, you'll leave. I know you won't come here, but…be careful."

She couldn't say it to him--he was, after all, a teenaged male who had just lost his mother and his home. Besides, she'd said too much already.

"If I could give you what I've learned over the past years without you having to learn it yourself. The hard way." She pictured the boy from two years ago, little more than a mop of hair and a pair of huge blue eyes on a body that resembled the walking-stick she'd seen on the nature channel--what was it? Discoverers? Discovering? Something like that.

"Mama not worth a thing, your daddy long gone…how could I say no? But then you got wrapped up in that little girl and every lick of sense you had just walked out, too. You should listen to me about those kind, honey." Her bony shoulders slumped and an uncharacteristically devastated expression filled her brown eyes. "I should have listened to my mama about them." She sighed, the weight of years of silence filling her chest. "I didn't though, and neither did my daughter." She swiped the rag across the counter, not that there was anything to dirty it up now.

"If she had, though, I wouldn't have you."

Gracie looked around the store and saw a run-down old place she swore years ago that she'd never be trapped in. Now here she was, thirty-two years later with a thirty-one-old daughter whose father had been one of those rich kids without a heart and whom she couldn't raise on her own in a small town. That same daughter who had died in Atlanta with her playboy lover , leaving Gracie a sixteen-year-old grandson with no idea exactly who she was to him.

He never would.

"Hey, Gracie Leigh," Eric said, an attempt at a smile on his face as he walked in. "Got anything left?"

"Not really. Not particularly." A memory sparked. "Eric? How hard is it to change my will?"

"Not hard. Just tell your lawyer what you want to change and he'll see that he gets done." His tone was pleasant, carefully neutral about the question. "Would you like some help?"

"Hm?" Gracie was pulled back from her thoughts about what she should have in there for Dale to know. Never the whole truth--he didn't need that. But if it wasn't hard. "Oh, no. I'll see Joseph and then…do you thing your mama would mind witnessing for me?"

"Don't see why not. It's pretty ordinary paperwork."

"It won't be too…macabre?"

How did Gracie know that word? Never mind. His mind was on what was left of the inventory, not Gracie Leigh's mysterious ability to use words generally applied by academics to various heinous acts man perpetrated upon his fellow man.

"Given our recent comparisons," Eric replied dryly, "I doubt it would make her blink."

Gracie nodded. Eric didn't stay much longer. No reason to.

Fifteen minutes later, Gracie Leigh waved Gail Green over to her storefront.

"What is it Gracie? I was just heading home."

"Gail, I was wondering if you'd witness the change I want to make to my will…"

Gail blinked, then nodded, encouraging Gracie Leigh to keep going. From what Gracie Leigh had to say, the thought she'd put into it, there was something more here.

"Why Dale? If you don't mind the question," she amended hastily.

"Well," Gracie said, drawing out the word as she thought quickly. "We neither of us have any family. I guess…we are family for each other. As much as we can be. He loves this store," she added. No, that wasn't enough. There was something else there. She didn't dare tell Gail the truth. The only people that knew were incinerated in Denver. "It just seems right," she blurted.

Gail nodded. Well, if Gracie wanted Dale to have the store if she couldn't run it--the apocalypse would come first… Gail squelched the thought without changing her expression.

No, the apocalypse had already come. Anything was possible now. Even the town store being the sole possession of a kid who was barely old enough to shave, much less regularly.

The way Gracie Leigh spoke, it was even tempting to believe that Dale was somehow her blood. But that was ridiculous, of course. The classic spinster Gracie Leigh was no more Dale's blood than Gail was the mother of a racehorse.

"Then let's get this written out and signed. I know the language," Gail said. "If you've got some paper stashed, we can get this done right now. We'll grab someone else to witness your signature, too, and it'll be done."

"Thanks, Gail," Gracie Leigh said, smiling, an odd feeling of peace filling her. "This will definitely take a load off my mind."

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+


	10. Chapter 10

Conversations #10

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

Heather watched as the evening faded from the sky. Funny how ominous darkness could be, now that the invention of electric lighting was not a viable option. It made wondering about people and their intentions so much worse. One place still shone with light, although the fumes from the 'shine made the open flames a hazard. To Bailey's it was.

"Heather!"

"Hi, Heather."

"Hey, Teach."

"Hello, Heather."

The chorus of greetings came as it usually did. One former student--not hers, but with only one school, every teacher wound up knowing every kid--continued to call her "Teach". Heather wasn't the violent type, but she really wished she could smack him hard enough he'd remember her name. Of course, with her luck, that would probably make him infatuated with her and she'd have him trailing after her like a puppy.

"What's with the long face?" Mary asked, her ever-present grin irritating more than usual tonight.

"Nothing. Maybe. Oh, I don't know. Set me up, will you?" Heather's indecision or unwillingness to commit was showing. Mary didn't hop to.

"Not until you tell me what's going on. You're not a drinker--a certain commemorative bottle of Scotch aside--so before I start you down the path of alcoholism and liver damage, you're going to tell me everything."

Heather looked at her and stood up. "I can't, Mary. You're just too damned happy."

"What?"

"You and Eric. You're happy. You're out in the open. You've at least got someone to bitch at and curl up with at night. I'm not going to ruin that."

"One, you're supposing you could hurt my relationship with Eric. Two, you're assuming that whatever your problem is will go to bed with me, and three, you know that drinking solves nothing, but you're here anyway, so there's something deeper here. Spill."

Soft grey eyes met warm brown, filled with sympathy and kindness. For all she was a hardnosed businesswoman, Mary was also a bartender.

"Okay, Barkeep," Heather said, sitting back down on the stool. "Just go ahead and pour something for me, though."

Mary, sensing that her triumph was imminent, obliged her young friend. Not that Mary was an old crone by any means, but she was a few years older chronologically and worlds away in experience. After seeing Heather chase Jake, however briefly, the extremity of that difference came clear to her. Two shot glasses appeared next to a mason jar of moonshine. With a deft movement, Mary filled both and waited.

"It's…everything," Heather finally said, staring at the clear liquid in her glass.

"That narrows it down," Mary snorted.

"The missiles, the attacks, the lack of power, Jake, Emily, Roger…Everything. Nothing is quite what it should be and I know that there's something I'm missing, something important, but I can't think what it is because everything else is getting in the way. My students may or may not show up, though they'll still need to read the words 'danger' and 'poison' and 'radiation' on things, half of them are starving, the other half will be starving soon, and no one knows what the hell is going on." The frustration spilled out of Heather and she was close to tears.

"And it doesn't help that even that Mimi bitch has found someone who wants her while you're curling up alone." Mary dug into the underlying irritation easily. "So on top of starvation, ignorance, early-onset Alzheimers, and potential blindness and cirrhosis of the liver, you're lonely."

Heather paused, thinking. Damn Mary. She always saw past the bullshit and got to the core of the problem--another reason why Heather didn't drink. She couldn't face the bartenders.

"That's about it."

"There's a new doctor in town. Have you looked in his direction?"

"Kenchy?" Heather blinked. She was thinking of brown eyes, but they didn't have the cool doctor's clinical stare in them, or the drunken doctor's slightly sloshed look, either. The eyes she envisioned were bright with passion and rage. No, she had to get over Jake. Had to. There wasn't anything to get over. Just another fantasy. Just another wish. Just another night wishing she could work on her crossword puzzles after dark without wasting a candle or kerosene.

"Think about it?" Mary asked, nodding down to the direction of the clinic. "And remember, hon, not everyone's better off with someone." For a moment, Mary's mask slipped. The regret and fear she was enduring came searing through to Heather's sympathetic and easily intoxicated heart. Mary was still afraid of the town's rejection of her love for one of the Green boys, and she deeply regretted the pain she had caused to the Green family, even if Eric was now with her.

As Mary turned away, Heather looked down the bar. True, she wasn't the only one alone. But could she handle the worry about having Kenchy anywhere near an open flame? He was so saturated, he just might catch fire, and then the wind would catch the flames and--WIND! That's what she was missing! Now, if she could find some of those old agri-mechanical texts that were at the school, provided no one had snagged them for firestarter, she could at least have an idea for the next town meeting...


	11. Chapter 11

**Conversations #11**

A disjointed set of conversations that would've been fun/nice/endearing/helpful to see in the series…but we didn't.

Follows CANON only, generally references to conversations we never hear.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just speculatin'.

=-+=-+=-+=-+=-+

Mitch looked around the cell. He was waiting. On Jonah. Again. Or maybe nobody bothered to tell the old fart this time. Getting' older--no. Old. Old. Slower. Weak. Lettin' Emily push him this way and that. Yeah, Chris was dead, but hell, he was still hurting. Chris was his best friend. And then Jake bailed. Chris died. Jake disappeared. Johnston made everything right for Jake, but what about Mitch? Four years. Four. In a prison barrack with 200 other guys who'd just as soon cut you as spit on you.

No privacy. No peace. Nothing but memories. And rage.

Footsteps on the tile, soft. Who is it now? Why did people have to try to sneak up on him. Not like they didn't know where he was. Kinda obvious, really.

"Why'd you do it?"

Mitch's head snapped up. He stared. This was the last person he had expected to talk to him. Ever.

"Emily?"

Irritation flashed in blue eyes and Emily shifted her head and weight. She didn't dignify his question. It was a stupid question.

Mitch gathered his wits. Damn, but that was bad. His voice had cracked, too. Fuck. No way to fix that. Time to play dumb, 'cause he really didn't want to go there.

"Why'd I do what?" Now for that little smirk--the one that got Jonah to narrow his eyes. Damn, but that same look on Emily was hot. Too bad Jonah would kill him if he tried to touch. Bet she was good. Wild. Mitch leaned back to lessen the growing pressure in a sensitive area. He hoped he didn't have an imprint of his zipper. He hated when that happened.

"Get my brother killed."

Ouch. That was not a good opener. Fuck. Oh, no. She was getting really mad. Hot--wild. Definitely. But just pissed? Bad. He'd seen the damage she could do, and he was willing to bet she was armed. With what, he didn't want to find out, but he was willing to bet. Her father had taught her, after all. She wouldn't admit it, but she had more of the old man in her than anyone suspected.

"I didn't get him killed--"

"Bullshit. You pushed him into it. Jonah didn't want Chris in the life, but you and Jake--damn you both."

She turned and walked away, boots not whispering on the industrial tile this time. The heels rang with each step. Glints of the steel at toes & heels. Damn, those would hurt. She had strong legs. Glad she hadn't had a key. Her voice had been uncompromising. Cold. He wanted to remember her hot. The promise of heat on a cold day, the glow of summer sun in the dark. Hot. Emily wasn't supposed to be cold. She was…she was…leaving. Without another word. No.

"Ask Jake!" Mitch called, desperate to get her back, to talk to her like he had so many years ago, when he and Chris were just the annoying kids she had to keep an eye on--when she was the golden goddess he worshipped and she would sometimes give him that smile. Yeah, she was older, and Jake was older still, but sometimes he had dreamed. "Ask Jake why Chris is dead! Or is he still a fuckin' coward?"

Emily didn't respond. Didn't turn. Didn't hear him--or pretended she didn't.

Bitch.

Mitch felt tired. It was a sudden, deep weariness that he'd felt more than once. Maybe he could stop what he was doing. Maybe he could go straight…

His eye caught the shadow of bars across his legs and he snarled softly at the reminder of his ways. Where he'd been. What he'd done, just to survive. That old apathy was taking over again. It wasn't fun to come into town and have people shy back from him, walk softly, talk in whispers. Not anymore. He didn't care, the way he hadn't cared when he and Chris had started doing some real work for Jonah, what? Had it been ten years ago? Twenty-six and already a felon, a lieutenant, and a scapegoat for the town. Like Jonah had been. Fuck these people. Let them starve. He'd get his, and whoever stuck with him would get his help.

Whoever stuck with him. Like Jonah. Well, maybe not. The old man was late. He was gettin' senile. It was time for a change in the leadership, and he knew just the man to take over.

If Emily was still pissed off at him for her brother's death, she was never going to forgive him for his next move. This time, though, he'd be guilty.

Fuck them all.

"She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes…" he sang, letting his voice irritate, annoy, and worry those who were near enough to hear it.


End file.
